


Knife's Edge

by Fragged



Series: Submission [1]
Category: Stargate Universe
Genre: Facial Shaving, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Submissive Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 18:33:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4232376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fragged/pseuds/Fragged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young hurts his hands. Unexpectedly, Rush helps him shave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knife's Edge

Young curses as the surge of electricity sears through the skin of his hands, up his wrists, all the way past his elbows. Shit, that _hurts_ , and both his arms feel like they're asleep - prickly and numb at the same time.

“Sir!” Scott calls, and within seconds he's at Young's side. “Are you okay?” 

“Fine,” Young says gruffly, waving off Scott's concern. 

It isn't until he hears Scott's sympathetic hiss that he realizes his hands sting like they're on fire. 

-

“You need to be more careful,” TJ chides him, as she finishes wrapping his hands in thick mittens of washed and re-used bandages. 

“This one was on Rush,” Young grumbles. He's still not entirely sure what went wrong, but there had been some kind of overload on the module he'd been working on – and it wasn't like he'd been doing highly technically advanced repairs here, it was a simple task of 'taking out the broken part and replacing it with a new version of the same part'. There was no reason for the sudden overload, and seeing as Rush was the lead scientist for this mission, Young thinks it's fair to shoulder him with the blame for this little fiasco. 

TJ hums noncommittally, obviously not very impressed. “Well, that's great and all, but you're the one stuck with the consequences here,” she says. Somewhat belatedly, she adds, “Sir.” 

He lets it go. He kind of likes it when she gives him cheek, and he's still achingly grateful that they've finally gotten to a place where she feels she can talk to him like this again. And besides... she's right. 

“You're going to have to keep these on for a week, at least,” she says, looking pointedly at the bandages. “I'll change them in a few days. Try not to get them wet in the meantime.” 

-

“Shit,” Young mutters, as he fumbles his electric razor between the palms of his burned, bandaged hands. God, he feels completely handicapped, not being able to use his hands. The stubble on his face is the worst reminder of it, somehow. He can slip into his uniform pants without opening the buttons – two waking years on Destiny have left him considerably slimmer in the hips than he'd been when he arrived here from Icarus – and he can wiggle into his boots and tuck the laces into them, even if it takes some conscious effort to keep his boots on his feet when they're not laced up properly. He doesn't even really mind the fact that he is unable to zip up his jacket. He doesn't like these things, but he can manage. 

But the stubble, that's the worst. That's the thing that truly bothers him. 

Because he likes being clean-shaven. He likes his face to look smooth and bare, because it is a physical reminder – to him as much as his people – that he is still going strong. That he's still fighting. That he's not giving up any time soon. 

Shaving is the first thing that goes when the depression hits hard. 

When he feels like absolute shit, like there's no way in hell he can go on one more day like this, he stops shaving. And for some reason it works the other way around, too, because looking in the mirror, with his day's worth of stubble, is making him feel deeply uncomfortable. Tomorrow, if he doesn't shave, that discomfort will start edging into something darker, and he can't afford that. Not out here. Not with 76 people depending on him. 

God, he hates this. 

Of course that's the exact moment Rush decides to saunter into his room, unbothered by the fact that he is neither invited in nor welcome right now. 

“Colonel,” he says, letting his eyes flick over the scene in front of him. Young frowns and uses both hands to clumsily place the razor back on the little table in front of his mirror, before straightening up and turning to Rush. 

“What,” he bites out, harsher than he intended. He folds his hands loosely together behind his back, hoping the more open posture will annul some of his hostile energy. 

Rush is quiet for a few seconds. Young sees him add things up, and he grits his teeth against the attack that is surely coming. 

“...You can't shave because of your hands,” Rush states. Young gives him an even stare, not willing to give Rush any ammunition – not right now. Not when he already feels off-kilter and on edge because the person looking back at him in the mirror isn't _him_. Or maybe the real issue is that he's scared, deep down, that it _is_.

“It's not a bad look on you,” Rush says with a small smirk, and Young isn't sure whether that is meant as a jab or a compliment. Probably a jab, considering who he's talking about. 

Of course Rush doesn't care about being clean-shaven. Rush was a stubbly bastard back on Icarus, and the moment he'd set foot aboard Destiny he'd completely given up any pretense of personal grooming in favor of embracing his inner caveman. It doesn't look the same on him as it does on Young, though. His beard, his long hair... it doesn't look like giving up. It looks like finding something – a passion, a mission – that is more important than anything else in life. On Rush, it's a good look, if Young is honest. 

Rush's expression sobers. “I ran the numbers,” Rush says. He looks... kind of uncomfortable, Young thinks. “It was my fault, what happened. The overload. I should have seen it coming.” 

“I figured as much,” Young says, and he's pretty sure he doesn't imagine the flash of irritation on Rush's face. Good. Why should Young be the only one feeling like crap, here? 

Rush doesn't say anything for another long moment, and then his expression becomes inquisitive. “You're upset because you can't shave your face,” he says, a tone of curious wonder in his voice. 

Young doesn't respond. He's expecting Rush to laugh at him any minute now, and he can't afford to have his defenses lowered when that happens. Not right now. Not with Rush. 

Rush surprises him by stepping closer and grabbing the razor from the table. “I had no idea you were so vain,” he says with a huff, but his eyes glitter and his voice isn't unfriendly. 

“Alright. Come here.” 

Young almost jumps when Rush flicks on the electric razor and brings it to his cheek. Years of training have taught him differently, though, so he stands still as a statue while Rush takes his chin in his left hand and angles his face as he slowly moves the razor over Young's skin. 

This is... this is completely unexpected, and it's much too intimate for what they're used to, but Rush refuses to take his eyes off the task he's performing and Young is grateful just to stand quietly, unmoving, as he tries to parse what it is he's feeling right now. 

The graze of the razor feels different when someone else is doing it to him. Softer, almost ticklish, and Young can't help but want to lean closer into the touch – into the machine that buzzes over his skin, into the hand on his chin that is strong and certain, but not forceful. 

As Rush shaves his face, he feels something titter under his breastbone. Something expectant, and hopeful, and somehow almost painful with it. By the time Rush finishes it feels like they've been standing like this for years – too close together but also not close enough – as much as it feels like it's been mere seconds. 

Rush strokes a hand over his cheek and makes a face. “This is absolute shite,” he says, and it takes Young a moment to realize he's talking about the electric razor. “I could get a smoother shave with a butter knife.” 

There's something clinical, professional, in the way Rush touches him, but it still makes Young's heart flutter a bit. 

This is dangerous. 

He takes a small step back and watches Rush's hand fall down to his side. “Because you're such an expert on shaving,” he says, eyeing Rush's beard. 

Rather than getting an irritated sneer for his comment, Young is suddenly the recipient of a calculating stare. He frowns slightly, and Rush must see something he approves of, because he straightens his shoulders a bit and says, “I worked as a barber's assistant for a while, when I was younger.” 

Oh. So Rush does know what he's talking about, maybe. 

That weird feeling is back – that yearning, grateful ache that makes him feel nervous and alone and kind of happy as well. 

“It's not about vanity,” he confesses. “It's about how it makes me feel.” 

Rush gives him a long look, and then nods. “We all have our armors, I suppose.” 

The fact that Rush accepts, maybe even understands, what he means, makes it difficult to keep looking him in the eye. 

“Thanks,” he mutters eventually, when Rush is already turning away. 

Rush stops, shoulders tense again, and the silence between them is starting to get oppressive when he finally speaks. His voice is quiet and flat, and even though Young can't see his face from here, he can imagine Rush's expression right now, shuttered and closed off.

“As I said, it was my fault.” 

Then, within two seconds, Rush is gone, out the door, and Young is left alone in his quarters with a face completely free of bristle and a churning in his gut that he has no way of figuring out. 

-

 _“Two planets in range,”_ Volker's voice sounds over the radio. _“Looks like we've got water and ambient temperatures on one of them. The other one is... wow, really cold. We're not going to find anything edible there, anyway.”_

Food is their main concern right now. “Tell him we're sending a kino through, and assemble two teams to go down to that first planet,” he tells Scott. He can use the radio, if he has to, but it's hard and it looks ridiculous, and it is easier to simply let others make his calls for him at the moment. 

“Yes, sir,” Scott says, before he relays Young's message to the bridge and radioes James to come down to the gateroom. 

Young watches as the gate dials the first planet and the kino gets sent through. 

Volker's readings check out, as they always do, and before long Scott and James lead their teams through the puddle to explore the planet. 

_“Colonel,”_ Rush says over his radio. _“I'd like to check out the other planet in range. We need gadolinium for a number of repairs, and this planet seems like a good candidate to have the right types of oxides for it.”_

Young thinks for a second, and then nods at Dunning. “Tell him to take Greer.”

If his hands hadn't been completely useless right now he would've offered to go with Rush himself. He hasn't forgotten what Rush did for him this morning, and he wants to thank him, somehow. Then again, maybe offering to accompany Rush to a planet, just the two of them, isn't really the kind of gesture Rush would be interested in. 

He sighs and rubs the back of his bandaged hand against his forehead. 

-

That night, Young doesn't stop by the mess hall until it's late and everyone is gone. He hadn't even had to ask Becker to make him thinned down protein slop and serve it to him in a cup – easier to hold loosely between the burned palms of his hands, even if it does make him feel like a toddler – Becker had simply brought it to him in his quarters this morning. The man is perceptive, and probably one of the most considerate people aboard the ship. Young doesn't think he ever truly appreciated that enough before now. 

“Thank you, Airman,” he says, when Becker hands him his dinner in a cup. 

“Sir,” Becker says with a slight smile and a nod. 

-

Young is surprised to hear a knock on his door the next morning. Or, well, he's not surprised by the knock, but he is surprised to find Rush on the other side of it. 

“Rush?” Young says, when Rush shoulders past him into his room and makes for his shaving nook. He seems impatient and hurried, but Young thinks he looks a little bit nervous, too. 

“What are you standing there for?” Rush asks, and motions at Young to step closer as he grabs the electric razor with his other hand. He makes a derisive sound in the back of his throat while looking at the thing, and Young isn't entirely sure if it's aimed at the razor or him. 

Despite the fact that Rush helped him shave yesterday, Young had not expected this. In fact, he'd been pondering the possibility of asking Becker to do it this morning. Because Becker would be willing to help, and he'd be discreet, and maybe it wouldn't be quite as humiliating as asking someone else to do it. 

This is... this is good, though. This is better, because Rush doesn't make him ask, and Rush doesn't make a big deal out of it, and Rush knows what he's doing, it appears.

As Rush moves the razor over his skin in efficient, neat little circles, a pathetic part of Young is infinitely glad for the small height advantage he has on the man. Because somehow he thinks having to look up into Rush's face as he helped him with this would have been... harder. 

While the buzz of the electric razor took most of his focus yesterday, this morning it's almost impossible not to be distracted by other things. Rush's fingertips on his skin. Rush's breath ghosting over him. Rush's _scent_ , the slightly chemical tang of the shower, and underneath it that deeper, more dangerous smell. Like dry wood burning, almost. The scent of Rush. 

Young is kind of surprised when Rush lets his fingertips graze over his cheek before stepping back and putting the razor onto the small table again. It had seemed to take much longer, yesterday. 

“Thank you,” Young says, and he means it. 

“Don't thank me for that,” Rush says airily, waving a hand at Young's jaw. “I can hardly even call that a shave.” 

Young laughs, then, because Rush is kind of... well. “You're really that dissatisfied with your handiwork?” 

Rush scoffs. “ _That_ ,” he says, “Is not my handiwork. That is the work of a shoddy razor.”

Young feels his lips quirk into a smile. “It's a poor workman who blames his tools.” 

Rush gives him an outraged stare that makes Young want to... fuck, that makes him want to reach out and touch him, and where the hell did _that_ come from? 

“I'm not blaming my tools, Colonel. I'm blaming yours,” Rush shoots back. Then his face does something Young doesn't quite understand, and his voice rumbles a little when he speaks again. “Believe me, when I shave you, you'll know it.” 

And shit, Young definitely feels something stir low in his stomach at that. 

Both their gazes snap to the door when a knock sounds, and the weird, tense moment between them is broken. 

Young opens the door to find Becker with his breakfast, and he doesn't miss the way Becker's eyebrows raise slightly when Rush brushes past him on his way out of the room. 

-

The next morning Rush shows up again, and Young wonders if three times makes it a habit. 

He's not sure why Rush is doing this, why he's helping Young, taking care of him like this. He thinks it might be because Rush feels guilty over the system overload that caused the burns on Young's hands, but he doesn't want to ask. If he asks, Rush will probably get annoyed and defensive and – more importantly – he might stop coming over in the mornings. 

Young stands still, with his hands behind his back, as Rush moves the electric razor over his jaw. There's an odd tension in the pit of his stomach and for whatever reason he can't remember what he looked at during the other two times Rush did this for him, but right now he can't take his gaze off Rush's eyes – dark like strong coffee, focused intensely on the task in front of him. God, Rush has ridiculously long eyelashes.

Suddenly Rush's eyes flick up to his and it feels like a jolt splices through him, leaving jittery tingles all through his abdomen and chest. 

The moment is gone almost as soon as it started, because Rush looks back down at the patch of skin he's shaving, but Young feels his heart thump thunderously for a long time after. 

-

“How does it feel? Is the pain any less?” TJ asks, as she re-wraps his hands in clean bandages. 

“It's fine,” he says. She shoots him a look that says he's being unhelpful. 

“It still hurts,” he admits. Every time he touches anything the burns sting angrily, and more than once has Young had to grit his teeth as he was forced to abuse the tender skin of his palms and fingertips for things as simple as getting dressed. “But it's better than it was.” 

“Alright,” she nods. “That's a good thing. The fact that it hurts means the nerves aren't damaged. You'll probably retain all sensation in your hands.”

Well. That _is_ good news. “How much longer do I need to keep these on?” he asks, flicking his eyes over his mittened hands. 

“It looks like you're healing pretty well. We can get rid of the bandages the next time you're here.” 

Three days, Young thinks. 

For some reason, that makes something complicated and unhappy twist through his gut. 

-

“So,” Young says on the fifth morning, after Rush makes another dissatisfied sound in the back of his throat at the state of Young's shaved face. Every single time he finishes with the razor, he strokes his fingers down Young's cheek – to check the result of his work, it seems. It is starting to feel more and more dangerous. “What would you use to shave, then? I mean, if you shaved, obviously.” 

Rush gives him a long look, and there's something almost birdlike about him – like a hawk, head cocked and eyes piercing. 

“Hm,” he says eventually, and fishes an antique looking straight razor out of his pocket. 

“Where did you get that?” Young asks. The fact that Rush has been carrying it around all along does something odd to his insides. 

Rush looks away. “It used to belong to my father.” 

Young doesn't quite know what to say to that. The silence that settles around them feels expectant, somehow. 

“Why don't you use that, then, if you hate my razor so much?” he asks.

“I hardly think you'd want me to,” Rush answers, as he flicks the razor open and closed again with a snap of his wrist. There's something dark and harsh about the smile on his lips. 

Young doesn't have to ask why. It's true that for the longest time he wouldn't have even contemplated letting Rush near his throat with a sharp knife. But... 

Rush has helped him these past few days. Rush has been honest with him, since they've gotten out of stasis. Rush has... Rush has been trying. Maybe extending his trust to Rush this way is what they need to take the next step forward. 

“You can,” he says, as his heart beats a frantic rhythm in the back of his throat. “Tomorrow.” 

Rush gives him a look that reminds Young of the time he'd said 'Plus you and me?', and God, he really wants to... he's not even sure what he wants, but he hates himself a little bit for not doing it in that very moment. 

“Alright,” Rush answers eventually, settling on a slightly blasé attitude. “Tomorrow then.” 

He leaves, and Young stands there wondering what exactly they just agreed upon for an undetermined amount of time, until Becker shows up with his drinkable breakfast. 

-

Young is nervous. He had a rather... confusing dream last night, and that truly doesn't help the jitters he's feeling right now at all. Rush is going to shave him, for real, and more than the idea of that flat-blade razor inches away from his jugular, he's nervous because Rush is going to... It feels like more than a simple friendly act between two colleagues. It feels intimate, and that is both scary and thrilling. The fact that it's probably not the same for Rush – he used to do this for a living; it's just a job for him – doesn't decrease the flutters of anticipation as much as it should. 

Young jumps a little at the knock on his door, and damn, he has got to get himself together, because Rush is here. Now. 

He takes a deep breath and presses the door control to find Rush standing there, with a small bowl of water and an expression that looks so defiant Young entertains the thought that Rush might be nervous, too. 

“Uh,” Young says. “Hey.” 

Wow, smooth. 

He doesn't get the disdainfully raised eyebrow from Rush that he expected, though, and he moves aside to let Rush in. 

“Change of heart?” Rush asks without discernible inflection, as Young watches him place the bowl on the small ridge next to the couch. 

“No,” he answers truthfully, and then doesn't really know what else to say. It seems to please Rush a little, anyway, judging by the way the tight line of his mouth eases a bit. 

“Well then,” Rush says with a small gesture at the couch in front of him. “Sit.” 

He goes, heart in his throat. God, what the hell are they doing, here? 

“Tilt your head back,” Rush says, as he angles the back of Young's head to lie flat against the edge of the backrest. Young is looking straight up at Rush now, and Rush looks big, towering over him like this. Young swallows thickly and refuses to admit the trembling in his stomach is anything more than nervousness over the fact that he's quite literally going to let Rush put a knife to his throat, here. 

He waits stiffly as Rush wets a small hand towel in the bowl of water, and feels the first stirrings of something too much like arousal at the way Rush swipes the cloth over his skin in deliberate, precise movements. 

“You got actual shaving cream?” he asks, just to take his mind away from the swirl of undetermined fantasies that keep making his head spin. 

Rush lets out a scoffing breath at that. “Not quite,” he says, as he dips a bar of soap into the bowl and rubs it between his hands. It foams up nicely, and Young listens to the squelching sounds and stares straight ahead. “This will do, though.” 

Rush's hands spread the thick lather over the lower half of Young's face, and fuck, no matter how clinical his ministrations may be, it still feels entirely unacceptable. This has got to be one of the worst ideas Young has ever had, and damn it, it's not like he doesn't have a fuckload of bad ideas to choose from. 

Rush wipes his hands on the wet towel and opens his razor with a 'snick' that resounds unusually loudly, and then everything goes still. 

Young realizes he's holding his breath when Rush takes his chin between his fingers and angles his head to the side. He hears it before he even registers the feeling, the soft scrape of metal over his soapy skin. 

Fuck, it's _sharp_ , and suddenly he is very aware of the fact that Rush is sliding a razorblade across his skin, over the soft flesh of his cheeks and around the curve of his jaw, down his throat even. Rush could maim him forever with a flick of his wrist. He could sever an artery with one well-timed twitch of his finger. Young inhales slowly. He's putting his life in Rush's hands, here, and only now is that fact really sinking in. 

The thought that Rush could kill him, that he's basically at Rush's mercy, and that Rush is choosing not to hurt him... It does something unexpected to Young. Or maybe it's not unexpected – not after last night's dream – but it's certainly inconvenient. 

The slick scrape of the straight razor over his skin continues at a steady pace, only interrupted when Rush rinses the blade in the bowl of water with practiced ease. Young does his best to focus on the seams in the metal deck plating on the ceiling rather than the look of concentration on Rush's face where it hovers in his peripheral vision, and tries not to think of anything. 

Rush's fingers slide a bit to the right of his chin and tilt his face so he has easier access to the underside of Young's jaw, and fuck, the short flicks of his razor are quick and precise, but Young knows that one small move from either of them could leave him bleeding out on the floor in a heartbeat. Every inch of his skin feels so sensitive that it's making his balls throb. 

Young closes his eyes firmly and tries to will his burgeoning erection back down, because none of this is an even remotely appropriate response to the situation. He can feel Rush's breath on his face, hear the thumping, rhythmic pace of his own heartbeat, and he's not sure if he imagines Rush's fingers slipping down his throat a little lower than necessary, as if for no other reason than to caress his skin. None of it is helping with his arousal, and he's almost all the way up by the time Rush moves to the other half of his face. 

God, thankfully Rush seems too preoccupied with the task in front of him to notice, but Young can't even discreetly shift and try to obscure his hard-on from view, because Rush's blade doesn't ever leave his skin long enough to make it safe to move. He could say he needs a break, he could ask Rush to stop, but then that would only draw attention to his problem. Besides, he doesn't want Rush to stop. God help him, but the way Rush is touching him, the way Rush is right here, fully focused on giving Young this... It's the most intimate Young's been with anyone for a long time, and he doesn't want it to stop. 

Rush folds his hand under Young's chin and angles his head further back, before shaving his top lip slowly and carefully. He doesn't take his hand away until he's done, and Young knows Rush can feel it when he swallows nervously, but Christ, he can't help it. He wonders if Rush can feel how loudly his heart is beating right now. The thought that he might only makes Young's cock harder. 

Suddenly, the hand on his chin is gone. Young hears Rush swirl the razor around in the bowl of water, and then watches from the corner of his eye as Rush cleans the foam off his hands with the wet hand towel. Young takes the time to cross his legs and folds his hands over his erection, hoping it's enough to keep it hidden from Rush. Then Rush is rubbing the towel over Young's face, gently wiping his skin clean. When he's done, he strokes a hand down Young's cheek with a satisfied little smile, and Jesus, this... this is more dangerous than letting Rush put a knife to his throat, because fuck if he doesn't want to reach up and pull Rush in for a deep kiss right now. Rush steps back, then, walks around the couch until he's standing in front of him, and gives him a long look. 

There's something amused about the tilt of his head, and before Young realizes what is happening Rush leans forward and puts a hand on Young's knee, pushing against it to uncross his legs. Then he climbs on top of him, straddling his lap, like this is something they do all the time. 

“Feel,” he says, as he takes one of Young's bandaged hands from where it's folded over the crotch of his pants and brings it up to his cheek. Rush's weight is warm and heavy on his thighs and his eyes are boring a hole into him, and the feel of the rough bandages over the smooth skin of his face as Rush guides his hand is somehow more erotic and distracting than the way Young's cock strains against his pants. 

Rush's free hand comes up to cup his other cheek, and Young feels trapped, anxious and frozen and more turned on than he can remember ever being, and it's entirely possible he lets out a small sound before Rush bends forward and kisses him. 

They both groan when their tongues touch, slick and wet and _hot_ , and fuck, Young wants to tangle his fingers in Rush's hair, yank him closer and deeper, but his hands are useless like this, bandaged and painful. Rush doesn't have the same problem though, and he strokes his thumbs over the smooth skin of Young's cheeks a few times before sliding his hands higher, up into Young's hair, and uses his grip to take control of the kiss. 

Rush is up on his knees, he's taller than Young like this, and when he pulls on Young's hair to tilt his face up it makes something twist low in his belly. Fuck, why does he like that so much? 

Young's eyes spring open – he hadn't even realized he had closed them – when Rush works open the button on his pants and then slowly lowers the zipper. Rush tightens the hand in the hair on the back of his head and forces Young's face to stay angled upwards as his clever fingers free his erection and trace slowly along its length. 

“I saw you get hard when I shaved you,” Rush says without fully drawing away from the kiss. His lips catch against Young's as he speaks, and Young feels himself straining against the grip on his hair to move even closer. Rush doesn't let him. 

“Now the question is, did you react to my touch, my proximity?” He sucks Young's bottom lip into his mouth and bites softly before moving back again. “Or did you get off on the idea that you were entirely under my control, right then? Completely at my mercy.” 

Young lets out a shuddering breath and feels his hips jerk up, because fucking _Christ_. 

“Answer me,” Rush says, biting at his lip again, slightly harder this time. 

“...Yes,” Young groans, and he can't help but squeeze his eyes shut as Rush's hand tightens on his dick. “Oh, _God_.” 

Rush huffs out a short breath. Young can feel it ruffle his hair. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” he breathes, and then Rush's hand starts stroking his cock at an almost painfully quick pace. He feels his mouth fall open, and he lets Rush angle his head with the fist in his hair as Rush plunders his mouth, not asking, but taking what he wants from Young. God, had this been inside of him all along? How had he not known this was what he wanted? 

How does Rush manage to open up parts of him he never even wanted to know existed? 

_Fuck_ , Rush's hand on him is making it impossible to focus on anything else, and the way he thrusts his tongue inside Young's mouth makes him dizzy with need and desire. 

“You want to be dominated,” Rush says with a low rumble in his voice, when he pulls Young back from the kiss. “You want to be told what to do for a change, instead of issuing orders.” 

Rush's thumb swirls over the head of his dick, slick and fast, and Young can barely keep his thoughts straight. 

“No, I can't... you can't—” 

“—Shh,” Rush says against his lips, resetting the pace of his hand over his cock. “Don't worry, Colonel. I'll give you what you need.” 

“Oh my God,” Young pants, as his balls throb with the urge to come. Shit, he's so close, he's just... “Fuck, I need to—” 

Suddenly Rush's fingers tighten around the base of his erection, cutting off his impending orgasm, and Young can't hold back the deep moan it rips out of him. Fuck, it _hurts_ how much he needs to come. He hasn't been able to jerk off since his hands got burned, it's been nearly a week, and Rush is still holding his hair in a vice-like grip that is making Young's balls contract almost painfully. 

“Look at me,” Rush says, and Young realizes his eyes are damp when he opens them to stare at Rush. “I will take care of you,” he promises. 

“I need to come,” Young croaks, and he doesn't expect it when Rush surges forward and kisses him deeply again. By the time Rush pulls back, he feels a little dazed. 

“Fuck, you look good like this,” Rush breathes, and it makes something flutter high up in Young's chest to see that Rush is more affected by the situation than he's trying to let on. “I'll make you come, Colonel. When I'm ready to see you come.” 

That drags another moan out of Young as a deep shiver works its way from the top of his spine all the way down to his toes. Rush's fingers loosen around the base of his cock and set up a slow pace again. Young feels his eyes roll back, because _God, yeah, yes_ , but then Rush yanks his hair roughly. 

“Look at me,” he orders, and Young feels his breathing pick up as Rush moves his hand quicker, revving him up like the engine of a race car, because his eyes are dark and intense, and they see everything, Young is sure. He wants to squirm, wants to turn away, wants to close his eyes – but Rush won't let him, his gaze steady and heated as he works Young back to the edge of orgasm. 

It's too much, it's too much in one go, because before today he'd never even kissed a man, and now Rush is staring into his soul and laying bare parts of him he's really not quite sure how to feel about yet, but God, it feels so fucking good. 

“Rush,” he whispers, and he doesn't think he imagines the way Rush's pupils flare at how wrecked his voice sounds. 

“You're close, aren't you?” Rush asks, a curious smirk on his face. His hand is stroking him at full speed again, and Young feels his balls drawing in tighter as he pushes against the edge of climax. 

“Yeah, I... _fuck_ , I'm gonna...” 

“Hmm,” Rush says sweetly, bending forward to nuzzle against his heated cheek. “No, you're not.”

Young's hips jolt forward when Rush squeezes hard at the base of his cock again. 

“FUCK!” he yells, and this time he feels a frustrated sob well up in his chest, and shit, he doesn't even have the control left to keep it contained. “You _can't_ —” 

Rush is breathing hard, pulling Young's head backwards by his hair again, and the look he gives him is a terrifying combination of fondness and pure goddamn evil. “I can.” 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Young sobs. Jesus Christ, but there's something so freeing about this, about letting Rush do what he wants as Young's own arms hang uselessly at his sides. 

“You're beautiful,” Rush murmurs, before bending forward to lick his tears away. God, Young can't believe he's crying, but he feels so raw right now. So open, and so vulnerable, and so fucking helpless. He wants... 

He _needs_... 

“Please,” he begs, and it's both the hardest and the easiest thing he's ever done. “ _Please_ , Rush.” 

Rush kisses his cheekbone, and the corner of his mouth, and then he pulls back to look at Young with a soft expression. “Alright, Colonel.” 

For the third time, his fingers start playing a smooth rhythm over his cock. By now Young's entire length is slippery with precome, and even though Rush keeps his movements deliberately light and slow, Young still feels the build-up to his orgasm surge forward fast enough to make him dizzy with it. 

“Rush, I'm...” he moans, and the desperation in his own voice only adds to the pleasure running through him. It's rushing down from his stomach, curling up like smoke, weaving its way from his lower belly to his knees and elbows and making his thoughts cloudy with nothing but _Rush_ , and _yes_ , and _oh, God, please_. 

Rush yanks on his hair again, and Young opens his eyes to stare into Rush's satisfied face. “If this is how you react to a handjob, I can't wait to see what you'll be like when I fuck you,” he says in a low, conspiratorial voice. 

“Oh shit, Rush, I...” Young pants, and he knows he's babbling now, but the words keep spilling out as Rush's hand slides over him in a rhythm that gets more and more frenzied. “Jesus, please, I have to... I need to— _Please_.” 

Rush's eyes are on him, burning like fire and so fucking relentless that it hurtles his desire to an entirely new level. 

“You're almost there,” he husks. 

“Rush,” Young begs, squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught of Rush's voice, of his eyes, of his hand, of... of _everything_. 

“Look at me,” Rush says, tugging on Young's hair almost gently. Young gasps when he opens his eyes again and sees Rush right in front of him, a flush high on his cheeks and his gaze hazy with desire. “That's it, Colonel. Now, come.” 

And _God_ – everything slams into him at once, and he feels his back arch and his toes curl as his cock jerks violently and his orgasm finally spills out of him. He feels like it goes on for hours, all the pent-up pleasure culminating in a huge fucking tidal wave of release, and he's pretty sure he's never felt anything like this before. All the while, Rush's gaze is on him, not allowing him to shut his eyes or look away, and Jesus fucking Christ the noises he's making right now don't even _sound_ like him.

Rush keeps working over him, stroking his fingers through the slippery mess on Young's dickhead until it becomes unbearable and Young lets out a pained protest. Fuck, he feels like he might shake apart from this. His breaths come in stuttering bursts as he tries to get back to himself. 

At last Rush's hand leaves his cock, and the fist in Young's hair loosens its grip. Young sags back against the couch, still panting. He lets his eyes slip shut, but they shoot open again when Rush pushes two slick fingers into his mouth. 

God, that's _him_ \- he's tasting himself right now – and that shouldn't be hot, but it is. 

“There you go,” Rush says, letting his fingers rest in Young's mouth without moving them as Young sucks them clean. 

His other hand rubs circles over the back of Young's head, massaging his scalp as if he's trying to apologize for pulling his hair so much. It's not necessary – the slight, bruise-like ache is actually kind of soothing – but Young doesn't stop him, because it feels nice. It feels like he's being taken care of, like he's being cared for, and that's something he hasn't felt in too long. 

“Fuck, if you could see yourself right now,” Rush murmurs as he retracts his fingers from Young's mouth. A thin line of saliva spans between his fingers and Young's lips for a few inches before it breaks, and then Rush is kissing him again, sticky hands cradling Young's face. It's soft, slow and sweet, and it feels as if Rush is trying very hard to keep it from becoming too sexual or too urgent. 

It calms something deep inside Young, as his breathing returns to normal and his heart-rate settles on a quieter pace. 

Christ, he wishes he could use his hands right now, because he wants to feel Rush's skin against his palms. He wants to slip his fingers underneath Rush's shirts and pull him in closer against his own chest. He wants to curl a fist around Rush's cock and feel how hard and how wet he is, after what he just did to Young. He also kind of wants a shower, but that want is less insistent at the moment. 

Suddenly, Rush ends the kiss with a soft nip at Young's bottom lip. His hands move from Young's face to his shoulders as he makes to stand up from where he's been straddling Young on the couch. 

“Wait,” Young says, and Rush stills his movements somewhere halfway between planting his foot on the floor and pushing off of Young. “Where are you going?” 

“Aren't you expecting Airman Becker to stop by sometime soon?” Rush answers, and it's almost like he's asking something completely different, with that heavy-lidded gaze and the grit in his voice. Young flicks his eyes over to his phone on the coffee table. 08:16. 

“If Becker was coming, he'd have been here by now,” he says. Morning rush in the mess hall should be in full swing around this time. 

“Right,” Rush says, sounding oddly uncertain all of a sudden. Young glances at the crotch of his pants, and Rush's arousal is hard to miss. 

“What about you?” Young asks.

“I don't...” Rush hesitates and moves further back until he's standing in front of Young again. “I wasn't sure that would fall within the parameters of what we're doing here.” 

“Why the hell wouldn't it?” Young gives him a hard stare as he lets Rush's words sink in. “Wait, what exactly do you think we're doing here?” 

Rush shrugs and crosses his arms over his chest as he looks away. “It seemed like you needed it.” 

And wow, that is not an answer to his question at all. 

Or maybe... maybe it is. Maybe Rush is saying he's willing to give Young exactly what he wants, what he _needs_ , even when he expects Young never to return the favor. 

“And what do _you_ need?” he asks calmly, because it seems like a more reasonable response than getting irritated at Rush for thinking Young would be such a selfish lover, or letting the nervous flutter in his heart morph into full-blown panic over the fact that Rush is really hard not to fall for when he's being so considerate and respectful. It's kind of sweet, the way Rush seems to worry about taking advantage of the situation, and it paints a stark contrast to the callous jerk Young knew him to be when they got flung across galaxies to this rickety bucket of bolts, five years ago.

“I can,” Rush says. His eyes dart over to Young's, and for a moment Young could swear Rush is pleading with him. “I can take care of this myself. In my own quarters.” 

Young sits forward on the couch and lets his forearms rest on his knees. He's sure the offer is sincere, but he's also pretty sure that's not the answer to his question at all. A slow smile stretches out over his face. “You could, but is that what you _want_ to do?” 

Young swallows, swipes his tongue across his lip, and decides to not over-think it. “Wouldn't you rather come down my throat?” 

“Jesus,” Rush says, and then he lets out a breathless curse that makes Young's stomach curl in on itself. God, there's no way in hell he's going to get hard again after what Rush just did to him, but still the thought of sucking Rush off makes his balls twitch.

“Come on, Rush,” he says, and this is seeming like a better idea by the second. “You know you want to.”

“Do _you_ want to?” Rush counters, and that's the exact moment Young knows he's won. 

He grins and gets up from the couch to stand right before Rush. His pants hang haphazardly from his hips, and he has to keep them up with one of his bandaged hands as he leans close enough to Rush that he can feel his breath on his face. 

“Yes,” he growls, before pressing a nipping kiss into the corner of Rush's jaw. Rush moves suddenly, his hands shooting out to fist into the front of Young's jacket and dragging him in for a kiss, and this is nothing like that sweet kiss from earlier – this is hard and rough and needy, and Rush pushes him closer to the bed as he bites and pulls with a desperation that catches like a contagion. 

They're both a little short of breath when Rush sits down on the edge of the mattress and opens his legs for Young. The crotch of his jeans is pulled tight over his erection, and Young can't take his eyes away from it as he gets to his knees – and oh, shit, he's really going to fucking do this. Rush sits motionless before him. Young isn't even sure what he's doing as he bends forward to nuzzle against Rush's groin, feeling the firm hardness beneath the fabric as he rubs his nose and mouth against it. 

“Show me,” he rasps after placing a kiss onto the dry denim stretching over Rush's cock, and when he leans his head back and looks up into Rush's face, the lust in his expression makes something come undone in Young's chest. Fuck, this is Rush, fumbling with his own belt and zipper, drawing in a sharp breath as his erection jumps free, slick and hard and ready. It's Rush, and Young keeps eye contact as he moves in closer to lap slowly at the head of his dick. 

This is not something he's ever done, this is not something he _does_ , but Christ, Rush lets out a quiet little sound that he needs to hear again. Focusing his attention on Rush's cock, Young leans forward and sucks the tip into his mouth before sliding a bit further down. 

“Fuck, Colonel,” Rush says, placing his hands on Young's shoulders and squeezing hard. 

That's... that's good, but maybe... 

His mouth waters, and he tries swallowing around Rush's length. It's not much different than chugging beer from a bottle, and for a thrilling second he wonders if he could fit Rush all the way down his throat. Fuck, that is probably not a good idea. Not when he's never given a blowjob in his life. Definitely not when his hands are still useless and he'd be near defenseless, barely capable of stopping Rush – and Jesus, his cock pulses at that thought. He really needs to reevaluate his life choices, probably. But not right now. 

He nudges his bandaged fingers against the hand on his left shoulder and waits for Rush to loosen his grip. Then he takes Rush's hand gently into his own and places it on the back of his head, willing him to understand what he's asking for. 

“You want me to fuck your mouth?” Rush says breathlessly, placing his other hand in Young's hair as well. “You want me to take you? To make you gag?” 

Young feels his eyes fall closed as a deep, rumbling moan works its way out of his throat. Because, Christ, yes he wants that. 

Rush's hands tighten in his hair, pulling him away from his cock with an embarrassing slurping sound. “Then you ask for it.” 

_Fuck_ , Young hears a moan coming from his mouth, needy and involuntary and altogether wanton, and Jesus, how is he getting hard again right now? His cock feels exhausted and empty, but still he's filling up at that rough edge in Rush's voice and those strong hands in his hair. 

“Please,” he groans, and when Rush forces his head back, forces him to look into his eyes again, he twitches with anticipation. “Do it.” 

“Do what?” Rush asks, and Young knows he could call his bluff right now, because Rush's lips are parted with unbridled lust, and his breath is coming in high pants, but goddammit, he doesn't care. 

“Please fuck my mouth,” he begs, and the smug smile it brings to Rush's face sends such a flurry of contradicting emotions through him that he doesn't know what to do with himself. 

“Yes,” Rush says, and then he's pulling Young's face into his crotch, allowing Young to take his leaking cock into his mouth again and pushing him deeper before Young can do much more than taste the slick, salty-sweet precome dripping from his head. 

“Christ, why do you spend so much time talking when you can put your mouth to use like this?” Rush's voice is shaky, and his hands drag Young in deeper to smother the undignified sounds his words ignite in Young's throat. 

It's uncomfortable, and he can't breathe, and Young's own cock jerks hard with how fucking much he loves it. Soon, Rush is using the grip on his hair to make him bob up and down at a punishing pace, restricting his movements when he tries to back off to cough, or to regain his composure, and Jesus, he feels reflexive tears gather in the corners of his eyes as he pulls in desperate gulps of air between thrusts. 

“Yes,” Rush hisses, and bucks his hips up to push his cock even deeper into the back of Young's throat, and _fuck_ , Young feels his muscles contract convulsively around the intrusion, and it might have been enough to make him scream if his mouth wasn't too full of Rush to do more than moan pitifully around him. 

“Oh, fuck, _Colonel_ ,” Rush pants, and his hands tighten painfully in Young's hair while he drives his hips into him in three times, fast, and then Young's mouth and throat are overflowing with come as he tries to swallow quickly enough to keep from choking. 

He only half-succeeds, and when Rush drags his head back from his spent cock Young coughs helplessly as he feels a dribble of come slip down his chin. God, he feels dirty and used and so goddamn perfect. 

“Jesus Christ, you're...” Rush husks, looking down at Young as his chest heaves rapidly. “Fuck, you're hard again.” 

Young doesn't know how to respond to that, so he tries to get his own breathing back under control as Rush forces him to keep eye contact. Rush looks good. His eyes are heavy-lidded and darker than Young remembers them being, and his entire face is aglow with the warmth of his orgasm. He's beautiful. Young just wants to listen to him, to follow him without question, to let Rush decide what to do with him next. Even the insistence of his throbbing cock seems to fall away as Rush watches him languidly. 

They stay like that for an undetermined amount of time, Young kneeling at Rush's feet and Rush's hands holding a tight grip on Young's hair, until Rush's breathing goes back to normal and the hazy look in his eyes begins to clear. 

“Get up,” Rush says as he lets his hands slip from Young's hair, and Young doesn't even have to think about it, he stands up. Rush puts his hands on Young's hips and inspects his dick with a calculating stare. 

“Is this normal for you?” he asks, and Young feels a hysterical laugh bubble up in his throat, because no, none of this is what he'd classify as 'normal for him'. He keeps it in, though, swallows it down. Apparently he's good at that. 

“No,” he admits, and it sends a shudder down his back to hear his own voice so hoarse and ragged. 

Rush's lips quirk up, and then he curls one of his hands around the base of Young's cock and leans forward to take him inside his mouth. 

“Wha—” Young says, but the sucking pressure and the wet, slick heat make it impossible to finish his thought. 

Rush is thorough, licking and sucking at every fucking inch of him, and Young's arousal feels like something tangible, like a thread of steel wire winding tighter around his throat as Rush swallows him down with a restrained, practiced rhythm. 

“Fuck, oh my God,” he hears himself moan, and he folds the back of his bandaged hand against his eyes as he tries to keep his hips from moving forward, or backward, or anywhere that Rush doesn't want him to go. It's amazing, the suction and the heat and the little flicks of tongue against his tip, and Young feels his breath settle higher in his throat as the beginnings of another orgasm begin to pool forcefully in his lower belly.

He can't even parse what Rush is doing anymore, but his movements over Young's cock speed up and the hand on Young's hip squeezes hard, and then Young is coming again, letting out a shocked “Ahng!” at how good it feels to have this pleasure dragged out of him. Emptying him. Cleansing him. Every singly one of his nerve endings is buzzing with little electric shocks, and he doesn't know if he's okay, if this is what dying feels like, but fuck, he doesn't want it to stop, ever. 

When he's done, Rush's hands on his hips feel like the only thing keeping him upright. His knees buckle when Rush lets go, and he finds himself on the floor, sitting between Rush's legs. 

“Hm,” Rush hums, stroking softly over his cheeks and tucking some of Young's hair behind his ears. 

“On your knees,” he orders, and Young scrapes together his last bit of willpower to sit up on his knees. 

Rush gives him a smile that seems almost shy, before he laps a wet stripe up Young's chin. When Rush licks inside his mouth, Young can taste both of them mingled together on his tongue, and fuck, that thought makes something shift a little in his chest. 

It's a slow kiss, and again Young finds himself relaxing into it, the small trembles from his orgasm easing out into a steady hum of contentment. 

God, he doesn't think he's ever felt this _sated_ , and what the fuck just happened? 

When Rush finally breaks away to look at him again, he's pretty sure he's blushing harder than he has since graduating kindergarten. The look of wondrous affection on Rush's face does nothing to abate it. 

“I have to admit, I did not expect this,” Rush says eventually. 

Young laughs weakly. “Neither did I.” 

“It was good, though,” Rush says, but his inflection makes it sound like a question, and Young thinks he's a bit beyond the point of denying it now. 

“Yeah,” he breathes roughly. “It was good.” 

“Was this a one-time thing?” Rush asks, and Young mourns the loss of his hands when Rush retracts them from his hair and sits up straight to button himself back up. 

Again, he finds himself lost for words. Every cell in his body is screaming 'No, it's not,' but now that Rush isn't touching him anymore it's unexpectedly difficult to put his thoughts into words. He swallows thickly and looks away. 

“Colonel Young?” Rush asks, and Young thinks there's a hint of insecurity under the concern in his voice. Shit, none of this would have happened if he hadn't switched shifts with Brody for those console repairs. If he hadn't burned his hands, Rush would have never come to his quarters, he would have never helped him shave, and they would have never been in this mess of conflicting emotions and needs. 

Because he wants more, he wants more of this – of Rush – but it's hard to ask for it when the pressing need to come isn't there. And he doesn't know if he's comfortable with the idea of Rush bossing him around like this, because he needs to keep on top of him. He needs to make sure Rush and his crazy plans don't cost his people their lives. _He's_ responsible for that, and he can't sacrifice that for such selfish reasons as wanting more of this with every inch of his being. 

“Will you let me fuck you?” he blurts out, instead of giving voice to his concerns like a reasonable person. 

Rush's breath stutters audibly, and his hands curl into fists where they're resting on the bed. 

“...Yeah,” he says, like it pains him to admit it, and it's as if the tide comes in to wash away all Young's worries, because that means... Rush isn't doing this because he wants total control of him – he's doing this because he wants _him_. 

Young reaches up to Rush's face with his bandaged hands, and gently pulls him close enough that their noses are touching. 

“This is not a one-time thing,” he says, and then he's pulling Rush in for another kiss. The palms of his hands sting painfully, but he keeps them on Rush's face as he slides their tongues together, abandoning all pretense that Rush isn't exactly who he wants, too 

When they finally break apart there's a soft little smile on Rush's face, and Young is pretty sure his own expression mirrors it. 

“You should get cleaned up,” Rush murmurs, and then he's helping Young to his feet as he gets up from the bed himself. 

He reaches over the back of the couch to get the shaving towel to clean their hands and faces. He rubs away the come stains on Young's uniform before flinging it to the side and tucking Young back into his pants. He even zips up Young's jacket, and Young finds himself looking intently at Rush's face as he rakes his fingers through Young's hair to make it look at least somewhat presentable. 

God, it's like he's seeing an entirely new side of Rush – a completely different person – and part of him wishes they'd done this sooner, because he needs someone here. Someone at his side. Someone who will take care of him when it becomes impossible to take care of himself. And he'd never in a million years expected that Rush could ever be that person, but now... 

“Thanks,” he says quietly, and he wonders if Rush understands that he is talking about more than buttoning him up and making him look decent again. 

The little glance Rush sends him as he flicks his straight razor closed and slides it into his front pocket tells him that, yes, Rush gets it. 

“I should get to work,” Rush says. Young can already imagine the questions he'll be fending off at appearing at the bridge so much later than usual. Rush hesitates, and then he reaches out for Young's face to pull him in for another kiss. It's short, and Young barely has time to close his eyes before Rush breaks away again. 

Young feels like he should say something, but he isn't sure what, so the silence falls between them, thick and heavy. Rush turns away and makes for the door, but when he looks back over his shoulder Young hears himself asking, “You'll come by tonight?”

Rush's posture relaxes fractionally, and Young can see how the corner of his mouth twitches upwards. 

“Well, someone has to help you out of that jacket, Colonel,” he says, and then he presses the door control and steps out. His eyes dart to something on the floor right outside the door opening and he lets out a sound that is both amused and annoyed, before stalking off in the direction of the bridge. 

Five minutes later, when Young has tidied up his room and checked his reflection in the mirror, he exits his quarters himself. On the floor near the wall, to the left of his door, is a cup of thin, partly congealed protein slush. Becker must have left it for him there. Young feels his neck flush when he realizes Becker must have been right here, outside his door, with Young's breakfast in hand. 

He never checked how soundproof the doors on Destiny are, and shit, what if Becker heard them? What if he stood there for minutes, knocking on the door, only to be greeted with the sounds of Young begging Rush to let him come? 

God, this is mortifying. 

Still, Young consoles himself, at least it was Becker. Becker won't tell anyone. He won't kick up a big fuss over this. It could've been worse. 

And, if he's honest... he's not sure he has the capacity to care about this as much as maybe he should, at the moment. He still feels like he's floating somewhere halfway above his usual reality, and – he realizes with a shock – he can still _smell_ Rush on himself. 

Not on his clothes, or on his skin, because the soapy scent of the shaving towel Rush used to clean him is stronger than the scent of sex on him, but... he's not sure where it's coming from. It's entirely possible it's his imagination, but it's as if that smell, like burning leaves on a crisp winter morning, is oozing from his very pores. Like Rush marked him, somehow. 

Yeah, he decides, stepping out of his room with a satisfied smile and leaving the cup of unappetizing protein mush on the floor. Things definitely could've been a lot worse.

**Author's Note:**

> [whereismygarden](http://archiveofourown.org/users/whereismygarden/pseuds/whereismygarden) deserves all the credit/blame for putting the idea of sub!Young in my mind.


End file.
